“My name’s Jag Steele. I’m the lead singer and guitarist to the band Pandemic Sorrow and I have a drug problem – well, I mean it’s not really a problem
unless you count the fact that I almost made my heart explode from all the blow I shoved up my nose a few weeks back.”

That was my introduction during my first stint in rehab. I’m a fuckup. If you ask anybody who I am there’s a list they will go down: Famous, rock star,
legend, drug addict, womanizing man-whore… but if you asked me, I wouldn’t have the first idea of what to say because I don’t know who Jag Steele is.
Really, I’m living every other damn person’s dream, and all I want is reality.

Roxy Slade, that girl was my reality. My brutally flawed and beautifully broken reality. And she fucking hated everything I stood for. To her I was just
one of “those guys”, and she’d rather be buried alive with poisonous snakes than give someone like me a piece of toilet paper to wipe their ass with.
Brutal – Life. Is. Brutal. And it is just a giant pain in the ass, which is why I chase after anything to make it numb, anything that can fill this void. I
just want anything that can make me not feel.